


how can i resist you?

by curtaincall



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Bickering, Competitive Seduction, Crowley's Tongue (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Canon, Sex Strike, i would apologize to Aristophanes but tbh i think he'd be proud, moron4moron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:08:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24449359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtaincall/pseuds/curtaincall
Summary: “Oh, please,” Aziraphale said, “I have plenty of—of self-restraint. Especially when it comes to sex—”“Ha,” said Crowley, with what he probably thought was scorn, and made a particularly sharp left turn.A viewing ofLysistrataprompts an argument about who can go longest without sex. And, well...there's only one way to find out.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 87
Kudos: 458
Collections: To The World - Good Omens Anniversary Exchange





	how can i resist you?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gingerhaole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerhaole/gifts).



> This is for gingerhaole, whose prompt was to write something "self-indulgent" - so of course I whipped up some Horny Idiot Shenanigans. I hope you enjoy!

They agreed, eventually, to blame it all on Aristophanes.

“I thought that was a _splendid_ performance of _Lysistrata_ ,” Aziraphale said, as Crowley closed the passenger door of the Bentley behind him. “Do you remember watching the original? You’d just come back from Sparta yourself, hadn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, climbing in the driver’s seat and starting the engine, “actually thought it was, y’know. Not _ironic_ , but—relevant, I guess. That you and I should be watching a play about people on opposing sides of a war teaming up to stop it.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, “not in _precisely_ the same way. I mean, the women of Athens and Sparta going on a sex strike isn’t exactly the same as us, ah—”

Crowley grinned. “Yeah, guess not. But. I agree. Great play. Funny.”

“The way you like them,” said Aziraphale. “Although. I must say, I know it’s not precisely _supposed_ to be realistic—”

“What, did the giant fake phalluses the actors had on clue you in?”

“But,” Aziraphale continued, not dignifying this with a response, “it’s rather ridiculous that none of them—the men _or_ the women—can stay celibate for any length of time. I know, yes, it’s exaggerated, but _still._ No self-control at _all.”_

Crowley snorted. “Oh, yeah, that’s a lot, coming from _you,_ Mr. All-My-Judgement-Flies-Out-The-Window-At-The-Sight-of-Dessert. Lectures on _self-control—”_

“Oh, _please,”_ Aziraphale said, “I have _plenty_ of—of self-restraint. _Especially_ when it comes to _sex—”_

“Ha,” said Crowley, with what he probably thought was scorn, and made a particularly sharp left turn.

“Don’t laugh,” Aziraphale said, “I spent _six thousand years_ with you— _undulating_ all around me, didn’t I? I’d say resisting the charms of the Original Tempter for millennia is a rather convincing argument for my self-restraint—”

“Come _on,”_ Crowley said, “it’s not like I was _trying.”_

Aziraphale raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Oh, you weren’t, were you?”

“Mooning around being hopelessly in love is _not_ the same thing as attempting to, to, sully your chastity, or whatever—”

Aziraphale was distantly amused to realize that, even in an argument, hearing Crowley say “hopelessly in love” was still enough to make his heart do an odd sort of thumping thing. It was not, however, sufficient to distract him from the point at hand. “Well,” he said, “it doesn’t change the fact that I would _certainly_ resist a good deal longer than those men and women in the play did.”

“I mean, sure,” Crowley said, “so would I.”

Aziraphale snorted indelicately. “You would _not.”_

“I would _so,_ I’d last longer than _you_ would—”

“If you’d like to tell yourself that,” Aziraphale said haughtily, “far be it from me to disabuse you of the notion—”

“All right,” Crowley said, drumming his hands on the wheel, “prove it.”

“How would I—”

“Let’s try it. Going on strike. Both of us. First one to crack loses.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Aziraphale, with rather less conviction than he might have wished for. This was likely due to the sudden surge of competitive energy that had overtaken his mind.

“If you don’t think you can handle it—”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale said, “I simply don’t wish to see you embarrass yourself, dear.”

Crowley barked a laugh. “Oh, angel, you are _on.”_

* * *

_Three weeks later_

Crowley was, he realized, more than a bit surprised that Aziraphale hadn’t given in yet. He’d been doing his very best to—what had Aziraphale called it—to _undulate_ in the most alluring possible fashion, the better to prompt an outburst of angelic love, but Aziraphale had just watched him saunter by and mentioned lightly that Crowley was looking a bit peaky, and maybe dark colours washed him out, actually, had he considered switching it up…

Crowley had retired from the field in dudgeon.

Still, he thought, strolling into the bookshop with a bottle of wine and a record of _Carmen,_ if there was anyone who could be tempted to indulge in a little sensuality, it was Aziraphale. (He had considered attempting the whole rose-between-the-teeth bit, to really ram the message home, but a test run had resulted in bloody lips and a copious amount of swearing, so that was right out.)

“Hey, angel,” he said, trying to pitch his voice low enough to be alluring but high enough to still be heard. “Fancy a drink?”

“Oh, hello, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, emerging from the backroom. _“And_ you’ve brought music, how lovely.”

“Sure have,” Crowley said, in the same tone.

“Do you have something in your throat, dear?”

“Nah,” Crowley said, giving up the sexy voice as a bad job. 

Aziraphale squinted at the record. _“Carmen?”_ he asked, suspiciously. “Rather a... _suggestive_ choice.”

“Oh really?” Crowley said with affected nonchalance. “Hadn’t thought about that.”

Aziraphale frowned dubiously. “I’m sure you didn’t,” he said. “Very well, then, _Carmen_ it is, let me just—” And he reached up to his neck and unwound his bowtie.

Crowley made a hopefully-interrogatory, definitely-confused noise.

“What?” Aziraphale asked, in tones too wholly innocent to be remotely sincere. “I’m just making myself comfortable. _Do_ feel free to do the same.” He laid the bowtie down on the table and adjusted his collar, unbuttoning the top to reveal the hollow of his neck.

“Oh, come _on,”_ said Crowley.

“Look,” Aziraphale said, “I merely want to be comfortable before settling in to listen. Unless…” He looked downward, then up again, and Crowley wondered distractedly whether he’d enhanced the length of his eyelashes via minor miracle (or simply well-applied mascara). “There’s something _else_ you’d rather be doing?” And he delicately undid his cuff and rolled up a single sleeve.

Crowley made a noise like the name of a tech billionaire’s baby and dropped the wine bottle.

“Something wrong, dear?” Aziraphale asked, starting in on the other sleeve.

Crowley mentally yanked his entire brain away from the various bits of angelic skin that were currently showing. “Nah,” he managed. “I just—um—gonna go clean that up,” he said, weakly.

He could hear Aziraphale’s soft laughter behind him as he went.

* * *

_Five days later_

Aziraphale frowned at a copy of _Our Mutual Friend_ with a loose stitch in the binding. He’d thought the full set of Dickens was all in top-notch condition, but apparently not. Sighing, he checked off the book on the list in front of him (the neatness of his handwriting lent an air of organization to its chaos) and replaced it on the shelf. 

“Why do you bother?” drawled Crowley from the doorway. “Not like you’re ever _actually_ going to organize properly.”

“There’s a very scientific system,” lied Aziraphale defensively, and turned around.

Crowley was leaning in the doorway, and Aziraphale’s certainty that he’d practiced that lean in the mirror beforehand unfortunately didn’t make it any less alluring. 

He was also holding a large, oblong lolly, and as Aziraphale’s eyes met his, he deliberately flicked out his tongue and licked it.

Aziraphale shuddered a little and closed his eyes.

“Something wrong, angel?” Crowley asked, voice low with barely-controlled amusement. 

Aziraphale took a deep breath, counted to twenty-five very rapidly, and opened his eyes again.

Crowley winked obnoxiously and licked the lolly again, more slowly this time, almost languid, running his tongue down the length of it—

Aziraphale thought very hard about misattributed quotations, and overdone steak, and _Starlight Express._

“I was thinking,” Crowley murmured, between licks, “that maybe we could stay in tonight. Watch a film. _Definitely_ nothing elssssse.”

“That sounds lovely,” Aziraphale managed. “I’ll. Ah. Order us some takeaway.”

“Mmm,” said Crowley, “don’t know if I’ll still be hungry—” 

And he put the entire lolly in his mouth and sucked.

“Oh, good _Lord,”_ Aziraphale breathed.

Crowley withdrew the lolly from his mouth excruciatingly slowly and obscenely wetly. Aziraphale felt rather as though he ought to avert his gaze, but found himself completely unable to look away as Crowley licked around his lips, tongue darting over what were surely the sticky-sweet remnants of—

“Do you know what,” said Aziraphale, very rapidly, “I’m just going to go and get the takeaway menus, that’s all, and, oh, erm, I _must_ ask that you dispose of that somewhere, wouldn’t want any of the, the melty bits getting on the books, now, would we?”

“That’sss all right,” Crowley said. “Expect I can think of some other things to do with my mouth.”

Aziraphale bolted for the safety of the backroom.

* * *

_Four weeks later_

The mutual seduction attempts had, with time, increased in both frequency and intensity. Aziraphale moaned orgastically through dinner; Crowley turned into a snake and started whispering suggestively about his lack of gag reflex. Aziraphale murmured a lot of things about Crowley’s supposed soft side; Crowley found an even skinnier cut of jean. And so forth.

But even though there had been a few near-misses on both sides, the unstoppable forces of Hell had as yet failed to collide with Heaven’s immovable object, and vice versa. It had, by the time Crowley came by the bookshop to ask for a hand with a particularly ingenious scheme involving a Tory politician and an old pair of orthopedic shoes, passed almost entirely out of his mind. ( _Almost_ entirely. But if Aziraphale had six millennia’s experience resisting Crowley, Crowley was equally adept at accepting such resistance and going home to engage in what Aziraphale called _self-abuse,_ which at least lessened the intensity of his current frustration.)

“Hey, angel,” he said, wandering in, “you’re gonna _love_ this one, talk about sowing the seeds of your own—”

And he broke off, because Aziraphale was sitting, not on the sofa or an easy chair, but on a _very_ familiar wooden stool, and he was wearing…

“Oh, hello, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and held out his handcuffed wrists. “I seem to have gotten a bit...tied up.”

“Are those the _actual_ clothes you were wearing at the Bastille?” Crowley asked (except it came out more as “are...clothes...Bastille?”).

Aziraphale looked down at himself with studied innocence. “Why, I believe they are.”

“Hrnnngh,” said Crowley.

 _“So_ kind of you to come rescue me,” Aziraphale continued, “although I _do_ remember thinking that it was such a _shame_ these came off so quickly.” He rattled the handcuffs. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to help me with them again? Or…” he glanced quickly at Crowley— “perhaps we _could_ keep them on, this time?”

Crowley, not trusting himself to say anything that wouldn’t constitute a defeat, shook his head wordlessly and snapped his fingers.

The handcuffs stayed on.

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale said, grinning with sheer mischievous delight, “I _do_ believe I wangled it so that these _can’t_ be undone via supernatural means. Yours _or_ mine.”

Crowley, who had been about to turn around and bolt, frowned. “Wait, so you can’t—”

“So I _genuinely_ cannot get out of these myself,” Aziraphale said. “Which means…”

“That I have to _help_ you, _”_ said Crowley. “Gosh, you are just—you’re a saucy little minx, aren’t you, angel?”

 _That_ at least seemed to hit home, because Aziraphale blushed slightly, and Crowley wondered for a moment if he couldn’t spin this into an attempt of his own. But then Aziraphale smiled with divine sweetness and said, lightly, “Why, yes, darling, I rather think I am,” and Crowley’s goal shifted back to _get out of this without losing the bet._

“Right,” he said, and stalked over to Aziraphale, which had the drawback of proximity but at least prevented him from taking in the entire tableau. “Think you’re clever, don’t you,” he asked, looking over the handcuffs to find the keyhole, “with your whole _oh help me Crowley_ act.”

“It’s proven rather consistently effective, wouldn’t you say?” 

Crowley grunted. 

“I’ve always found it endearing,” Aziraphale continued. “You. Wanting to be the hero.”

Which was _deeply_ unfair, he didn’t get to both appeal to Crowley’s knight-in-shining-armour fantasies _and_ be all soft and fond about them. Especially given that Aziraphale’s shackled wrists were in Crowley’s hands, and that in order to get a better look at the cuffs, Crowley had been obliged to lean in towards him, so that he could see the light blond down on Aziraphale’s cheeks, the lines of the veins running down his neck and towards the lacy jabot that Crowley _very much_ wanted to rip off…

Crowley, with the part of his brain that was still functioning semi-coherently, found the presence of mind to click his fingers and summon the keys to the handcuffs from wherever Aziraphale had stashed them. He inserted the key in the lock with fumbling fingers—best not to think too closely about _that_ metaphor—and twisted. 

The handcuffs fell off, and Aziraphale pouted. 

“Nice try,” Crowley said, withdrawing to a safe distance, “but no dice.”

“I don’t suppose there’s anything you want me to do to _thank_ you?” Aziraphale ventured half-heartedly.

Crowley shook his head, and focused his attention on a point beyond Aziraphale (who, after all, was still clad in full baroque splendor). “Nah. Now. What I _came_ here to tell you…”

* * *

_Twelve days later_

Aziraphale turned the page of his newspaper. The _Celestial Observer_ had never really gotten the hang of human-style crosswords, but the resulting puzzle certainly _did_ tease one’s brain, so he looked up to find a pencil—and saw, instead, Crowley, perched on the edge of his desk.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, “I didn’t…”

“Hear me coming?” Crowley asked, voice low, and Aziraphale steeled himself for another volley. “Well. I just _slithered_ on in, hope that’s all right…” He was being more than usually sibilant, and Aziraphale shivered a bit from anticipation and anxiety. 

“Of course,” he said, keeping his voice controlled, “do make yourself at home.”

Crowley grinned widely. “Thanksss.” He hopped off the desk and slunk around the chair, resting his hands lightly on Aziraphale’s shoulders, his mouth level with Aziraphale’s ear.

“You know,” Aziraphale said, mildly, “that if you—erm, _lick_ me, that’s _you_ forfeiting—”

Crowley breathed a _shhh_ into his ear. “Not gonna lick you, angel,” he said. “Not until you assssk for it.”

“Well, I certainly don’t—”

 _“The expense of spirit in a waste of shame,”_ Crowley recited, his breath warm on Aziraphale’s cheek, _“is lust in action, and till action, lust—”_

Aziraphale felt himself sag back a bit in his chair, and with their faces this close together he could sense Crowley’s answering smile. 

_“Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,”_ he continued, somehow making each pejorative sound progressively more appealing, _“savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust…”_

“I’ll say,” Aziraphale muttered, but his heart wasn’t in it. (His heart being more than a little occupied with attempting not to swoon dramatically.)

 _“Enjoy’d no sooner, but despised straight—”_ here Crowley lifted a hand from Aziraphale’s shoulder and ran the back of it lightly down his cheek— _“past reason hunted, and no sooner had/Past reason hated, as a swallow’d bait/On purpose laid to make the taker mad..”_

Aziraphale folded his hands tightly in his lap. 

Crowley, perhaps seeing this as resistance, lifted his hand from Aziraphale’s cheek and placed a finger, instead, on his arm, a touch that was barely a touch, resting only on the fabric of his shirt, not reaching the flesh below. 

This did not, for Aziraphale, make it feel any less searing.

 _“Mad in pursuit, and in possession so…”_ Aziraphale reflected miserably that Crowley had certainly chosen a sonnet with plenty of opportunities to hiss. _“Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme/A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe…”_

Here, Crowley, whose finger had just about dived as low as it could on Aziraphale’s arm without skirting dangerously near his lap, suddenly withdrew, pulling back from where he’d crouched over Aziraphale. _“Before, a joy proposed…”_ He circled the chair, placing a hand on each of its arms, and sank to the ground, kneeling between Aziraphale’s thighs, which had spread of their own accord. _“Behind, a dream.”_

Aziraphale gripped his hands together more tightly.

 _“All this the world well knows, yet none knows well/To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell,”_ finished Crowley, and looked up at Aziraphale, his eyes unshaded and unblinking.

He was so near—hands and face and _mouth,_ all waiting and eager, Aziraphale knew, if he only said the word...He knew now, he reflected ruefully, what Crowley had meant when he’d said he hadn’t been _trying_ to tempt Aziraphale, before. _This_ was Crowley trying, and now that Aziraphale had tasted the fruit, as it were, it was that much more difficult to refuse it. 

He reached out and placed a hand lightly on Crowley’s head. “But I _do_ shun it,” he said, firmly, and pushed him gently backwards.

Crowley fell gracelessly back onto his rear. “What?”

“Clever of you,” Aziraphale said, his composure returning with the increased distance, “but next time perhaps try choosing a sonnet that _isn’t_ about the shame and regret that result from sex.”

“Look,” Crowley retorted, “I got to hiss _lust_ a lot, that was the main criterion.”

And Aziraphale had to silently agree that the sound of said hissing was likely to stay with him for some time.

* * *

_Meanwhile, in Hell_

The demon Yasti was literally drowning in paperwork. (The use of _literally_ to mean _figuratively_ had recently been mandated by Lower Management.) File after file of depraved sex acts, embarrassing fetishes, truly unthinkable kinks...and while, as a general rule, Yasti was all for human horniness, she definitely did _not_ appreciate all the extra cataloguing work that had been coming (heh— _coming)_ her way over the past couple of months.

“What is going _on_ up there?” she muttered, flipping quickly through the file of one Arnold Wimbley, age 56, who had met his end doing something remarkably sordid with a custom-made life-size replica of one of the _Animal Crossing_ villagers. There _had_ to be a reason for the sudden spike in lechery, the cornucopia of carnal concupiscence. 

She rummaged through the stacks, hoping to find a memo, or a message, or _something_ about what _had_ to be some sort of new infernal initiative to relaunch Lust into the upper echelon of the deadly sins. (The Envy and Pride teams wouldn’t stop bragging about Instagram—it was about _time_ Lust got a little recognition.) But nothing turned up. 

Yasti tapped an arched fingernail against the edge of her desk (and then lifted it immediately, because it had gotten caught in the standard-issue Old Desk Gum that came with all office furniture). No one in Hell said _work smarter, not harder,_ because you really weren’t supposed to do _either_ of those things (and, in particular, if you said _harder_ around Yasti you were likely to get a dick joke for your pains). But if you flipped efficiency on its side and looked at it through puce-colored glasses, it turned into just plain old laziness, and Sloth was _definitely_ the order of the day. So Yasti, instead of continuing to go through the files one by one, swept the collection of molding Twinkies (yes, in Hell, even the Twinkies can grow mold) and half-empty Red Bull cans off of her desk and fanned out the paperwork, scanning for any hint of a pattern.

Gender? No. Age? No. Ethnicity, religious affiliation, favorite Beatle—no, no, no. No discernible commonality between the sorry souls that lay before her.

None, except…

She practically hopped out of her seat, shuffling the papers eagerly around until she found what she’d been looking for.

The new erotic explosion was centered in London.

And not just anywhere in London, she realized, dividing the papers into two stacks with a zeal that might have earned her a slap on the wrist for being almost _virtuous,_ if anyone had been around to see it. There were two distinct epicenters from which the sexual energy was apparently radiating—one in Soho, and one in Mayfair.

“Who…” Yasti muttered, and then, realizing, “oh, you _fuckers.”_

* * *

_Later that day_

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice sounded...odd, over the phone, and Crowley had the fleeting impression that he was trying not to laugh. Or not to cry. Or both.

“What?” he asked, not without some suspicion. “If this is another one of your little _ploys_ to get me to crack—”

“No, no,” Aziraphale said, quickly and with too much real sincerity for Crowley to doubt him. “Quite the contrary, ah, in fact.”

 _“You’re_ giving in?” 

“No,” Aziraphale said, even more quickly than before. “No, it’s just...I’ve received a note. But I, um, I rather think it’s for both of us.”

“Okay,” said Crowley, “what _kind_ of note?”

“Look,” said Aziraphale impatiently, “will you just come over? It’s not the sort of thing one likes to read over the telephone. And. Well. I’m not entirely certain how to pronounce much of it.”

“All right,” said Crowley, his curiosity piqued. “Be right over.”

When he reached the bookshop, Aziraphale was pacing around, hands behind his back, looking half as though he wanted to burst out in giggles and half as though he wanted to curl up in a ball and perish from shame. “Oh, good, you’ve come,” he said, and thrust a card into Crowley’s hands.

Crowley turned it over. It bore an image of one of the Minions from _Despicable Me,_ advising the sender’s niece to have a happy sixth birthday. “This is from _Hell?”_ he asked, sharply.

Aziraphale nodded. “How do you know?”

“I was the one who proposed these as the new official stationery,” Crowley said distractedly, opening the card, “it was a lark, didn’t actually think it’d catch on…”

The tune to _Happy Birthday,_ with the lyrics in the scrambled language of the Minions and the backing music sounding like a grade-school orchestra on Valium, blared out as Crowley scanned over the note inside.

_heyyyy mr and mr loophole ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) !!!!_

_totally hope u guys are doing ok (◑‿◐) but cRaZy story tho so i noticed there’s this w i l d amount of hornyyyyy energy coming from ur immediate areas. idk what kinda stuff you’re getting up to over there but it’s making 4 like sooo much extra paperwork for urs truly (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻_

_so w/e energy ur putting out into the world plz give it a break im literally getting tortured here!!!!!!! fml_

_and dont forget to remember me when ur taking care of bznessssss lololol_

_yasti_

Crowley placed the card on Aziraphale’s desk, Minion-side down. “Well,” he said, after a moment. “This is...embarrassing.”

“I should say so,” Aziraphale said fervently. “I hadn’t at _all_ considered this as a possible side effect.”

“No, me neither,” Crowley said, thoughtfully, “but, y’know, it makes a kind of sense. All that pent-up sexual energy had to go _somewhere,_ and, well, you know how we both have a tendency to sort of...affect things. Without really meaning to.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, and nodded. “So.” He inhaled sharply. “What are we to do?”

Crowley scanned his face for hints of _are-you-thinking-what-I’m-thinking._ “Uh,” he said, “I mean, if we want this stopped, seems the _easiest_ way would be, just…”

“Calling it a draw?” Aziraphale asked eagerly.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, beginning to feel a steady thrumming of excitement in his veins, a spark of warmth in his gut. “Neither of us is _giving in,_ really, it’s just, ah...external forces.”

“Precisely,” said Aziraphale, and stepped in closer. “It’s really—” he reached up to gently remove Crowley’s glasses, and placed them on top of the Minion card— “only our _duty,_ you know, to end all this human suffering.”

“All right, angel,” Crowley said, snaking an arm around Aziraphale’s waist, “no need to lay it on _that_ thick. Point is. Game over.”

“Game over,” Aziraphale agreed, and clasped his hands behind Crowley’s neck, and _one_ of them must have kissed the other but Crowley was never quite sure which.

* * *

“Mmm,” said Aziraphale, and sighed happily. “I think that _must_ have dissipated some of the...tensions, I suppose, in our vicinities, don’t you?”

Crowley rolled onto his side and grinned. “I dunno, angel, I think we might need a few more goes to make sure we’ve got rid of it properly.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Yes, all right, I could be persuaded,” he said, and Crowley’s head disappeared from view again.

“Rather a spot— _ooh—_ of luck for you, that letter—oh, yes, just like that, darling, yes—”

“What d’you mean, for _me?”_ Crowley resurfaced somewhat prematurely, face flushed, presumably not only from anger. “For _both_ of us.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and placed a suggestive hand on the top of Crowley’s head. “I mean,” he said, nudging him vaguely downwards, “that I was _clearly_ going to win our little standoff.”

“Oi,” said Crowley, “I was all ready to hold out for _years—”_

“You were not, you nearly gave up less than a month in because you got a glimpse of my _neck—”_

“Not _my_ fault you’ve got a sexy neck—”

“And we _both_ know I’m the one with the willpower,” Aziraphale finished primly.

“Oh, we do, do we?” Crowley demanded. “Well, then, since you’re so blessed _disciplined,_ you won’t mind if I _don’t_ finish up, then, will you?” He sat all the way up, shrugging Aziraphale’s hand off his head.

“Oh, that’s hardly fair,” Aziraphale complained, “you can’t just—”

“What, can’t rustle up enough _willpower_ to make it through on your own?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Fine, then, we were _both_ lucky that letter came.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Crowley, satisfied, and went back to occupying his mouth with other matters.

**Author's Note:**

> Yasti appears courtesy of [ attheborder ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder) \- big thanks to Allegra for letting me borrow her OC!
> 
> the Shakespeare quoted is Sonnet 129.
> 
> and the title is of course from Mamma Mia by ABBA, because, again, self-indulgence ;)
> 
> you can follow me on tumblr at [fremulon](http://fremulon.tumblr.com).


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